


No Better Love

by jules_evan (julien_avec_rien)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Golden Age, King Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, Soft Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Soft feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26417998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julien_avec_rien/pseuds/jules_evan
Summary: Arthur has a fondness for dressing Merlin in ridiculous garb - Merlin remembers the hat. Now that he's Court Sorcerer, the tradition continues. But this time Merlin has serious reservations and he can't seem to make Arthur understand why.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 201





	No Better Love

**Author's Note:**

> A soft and self-indulgent fic because I need everything to be soft right now. I hope you'll enjoy. 
> 
> Title is from Hozier, Better Love

Merlin doesn’t wait to be offered a chair. He trudges across Arthur’s bedroom and collapses heavily into the nearest one, head bowed, robes dragging.  
  
“You’ll be covered in straw dust,” Arthur chides, glancing at the velvet hems on the flagstones. “You know how hard it is to clean velvet.”  
  
Merlin just catches himself before rolling his eyes. “Yes, I do,” he says, with a hint of salt.  
  
“Well then,” Arthur rejoins, far too animatedly. “Sit up straight, my man. Try not to look so wounded.”  
  
Merlin does not dignify that directive with a response – except to breathe in Arthur’s general direction in deep annoyance and slouch even further.  
  
Arthur only laughs at him and goes about his nightly routine. George has come and been dismissed, so Arthur has divested himself of his court attire and is settling for a quick splash at his water basin in lieu of a bath. The fire crackles. Merlin’s eyes droop. Arthur’s voice floats softly across the room.  
  
“At least you waited until no one could see you.”  
  
Merlin jerks his head up. “What?”  
  
“You’re tired. And uncomfortable.” Arthur’s gaze is focused on Merlin. “I know. But you didn’t show it in front of the assembly. In fact, I thought it was rather admirable, the way you kept a straight spine. Shows dedication.”  
  
Merlin looks at a crumb stuck in the grain of the table. George will have a fit. He pokes it deeper. “Arthur,” he says. But everything he wants to say swamps his mouth and he swallows his next words. Breathes. Thrusts them into the air where they sink. “It doesn’t feel right.”  
  
“What doesn’t?” Arthur is leaning against his bedpost, arms crossed over his chest. He’s using his caring tone. Merlin looks away.  
  
“The clothes. The – the adornments. I’m just…”  
  
“If you say ‘a peasant,’ Merlin, I’m going to hit you.”  
  
Merlin huffs. “I’m not noble. I’m not royalty. I know about appearances and – and representing Camelot but.” He shakes his head. Why is it so hard to refuse Arthur things? The way he looks you’d think Merlin has said he hates the clothes and Arthur, too. “Arthur, are they really necessary?”  
  
“Do you really hate them?”  
  
In a way, he does. He unclasps the button at his throat – a shining turquoise stone. “They’re too grand,” he says apologetically. It’s happened too many times now – druids, visitors, envoys from lands with magic, priestesses coming out of their hidden places of power – they’ve all come to Camelot and knelt, not to Arthur, but to Merlin, to their idea of Emrys. Arthur has never said a word in public or in private – he graciously waits and treats everyone the same, not believing the occurrence to be a slight to his sovereignty. And perhaps he’s right, but the distinction burns Merlin to the core every time.  
  
He is Emrys because he was gifted with power and Emrys is meaningful because magic users believe him to be, not because it is true.  
  
But Arthur. Arthur has risked his life and his kingdom seeking a better world, not just for Camelot but for all. He has dreams and visions of a future that go beyond what even Merlin has most longed for – the return of magic. In Arthur’s world all people are equal, respected, loved. It has been and will be an exhausting, enormous campaign to share Arthur’s vision with Albion, but he never flags, and he never stops believing in the goodness of such a world.  
  
Arthur is Merlin’s King. And it flays Merlin when Emrys is knelt to and not Arthur.  
  
“Well they ought to be grand,” Arthur says, like it’s obvious. “You’re Emrys.”  
  
Merlin shakes his head, a burning coal lodged against his heart. “I’m just Merlin.”  
  
“You’re a leader. People look to you for guidance, for help, for strength.” Arthur smirks. “It helps if you look the part.”  
  
Merlin undoes the next button and the next, pushing the heavy blue velvet off his shoulder and wishing he could push the responsibility off as well. The hundreds of tiny, sparkling crystals sewn into the robes flash and flare in the firelight. “I was Emrys long before I wore frippery like this,” he argues. “And people still knew me.”  
  
“Right,” Arthur says and it’s loud in the quiet. He stalks over to Merlin and stands before him, straightening the crown on his head. “But _I_ didn’t know you. And no one else without magic knew you. You let me believe, for all those years, that you were wonderfully loyal and generally useless.”  
  
Merlin huffs a laugh and Arthur crouches down so that he’s slightly below Merlin’s eye-level. He looks up.  
  
“But you weren’t useless. You were and you are the most loyal friend I’ve ever had. You have protected Camelot as well as and more frequently than any knight. You have brought about a time of reconciliation and it is leading us to peace. I can’t bear for that to go unnoticed or unrecognised, by anyone, for a moment longer.”  
  
Merlin shakes his head and looks at his clasped hands. He craves Arthur’s sincerity, but he can never take it without crying. “I’m not a King,” he argues, intransigence easier than letting his tears fall.  
  
“I don’t care,” Arthur says, his softest smile on display. “Though you are, in all the ways that matter. You are _to me_. And I want everyone to know it.”  
  
This is too much. Merlin’s nose is running, and he can’t wipe it on a velvet sleeve, so he has to let it drip and then he has to sniff it back while Arthur laughs at him.  
  
“For the most powerful sorcerer the world has known, Merlin, you’re awfully soft-hearted.”  
  
“And you’re a gigantic clotpole.”  
  
Arthur laughs and so Merlin laughs, but it’s messy and his heart, that’s so soft, apparently, hurts immeasurably. He’s never been able to explain why he doesn’t want to be recognised as on a level with or even above Arthur. He doesn’t know why himself except to say he knows he isn’t on a level. He isn’t honest or noble or chivalrous. He’s not always well-intentioned or caring. He loves Camelot and the world Arthur is piecing together with each painstaking day, but he isn’t bound to a beautiful vision or a better world. He is bound only to Arthur and he knows that if Arthur wanted destruction and annihilation instead of peace and cooperation, Merlin would give it to him. It is only because Arthur is good that Merlin remains good, too.  
  
And so it burns him. It scalds, when adoring eyes gaze on Emrys and not on Arthur. Look to Emrys for wisdom and not to Arthur. Pay Emrys respect in lavish heaps and give Arthur only a cursory courtesy. Arthur says it’s only natural for magic users to feel a kinship with Merlin, to want to show respect and love to him, when Merlin’s tried to explain that it bothers him, the way Arthur is secondary to them. But if they love and respect Emrys and Emrys kneels to Arthur, well, then they – but Arthur always cuts him off here by saying something incredibly stupid like, “You don’t have to kneel to me, Merlin.”  
  
But he must. He aches to be Arthur’s supplicant, dependent on his love and mercy and righteousness like he's dependent on air.  
  
  
“I’d rather die, you know.”  
  
Arthur, having been pleasurably insulted, has stood and is moving away to let Merlin sniffle in relative privacy, but he stops and turns back. “What?”  
  
“I’d rather die than lose you as my King,” Merlin says, first to his own whitened knuckles and then to Arthur’s wide eyes. “The way they act like…like Emrys is above a King in his own kingdom. Sometimes I want to scream.” Merlin stands, his fists on the table. The robes he’s pushed off his shoulder wilt even further toward the floor. His crown slips. He’s so tired. If he could only make Arthur understand then he could shed these wretched weights forever.  
  
“Merlin,” Arthur whispers. He comes close again and a sure hand removes the silver crown as Merlin tries to rein in his wild breathing. Fingers at his nape unlock the amulet he’s been given and when it’s gone Arthur’s hand wraps around the back of his neck and stays there, unmoving. “Do you think it bothers me that people love you? That they are loyal to you? Swear fealty to you and not to me?” Arthur’s fingers tighten slightly and then his thumb runs up the side of Merlin’s neck. “On the contrary, it has _thrilled_ me, Merlin, to see you get the recognition you deserve. I will never tire of witnessing the many ways people appreciate you.”  
  
Merlin shivers. His shoulders are so tense where Arthur’s forearm is resting between them. It’s as if all the nerves in his body are tightening into millions of knots. “I hate it,” he gasps. “The only way I want them to respect me is by respecting you.”  
  
“But that’s still what you want,” Arthur says reasonably. His fingers nudge and Merlin turns where he’s bid until Arthur is looking into his obstinate face. “And anyway, you’re forgetting the goal, mighty Emrys. True equality means that a king and a sorcerer deserve the same respect as a priestess and a peasant. So it doesn’t matter if magic users like you better. In a perfect world, we’re all respected regardless of position.”  
  
“We aren’t yet,” Merlin argues, because he can’t stop. Arthur needs to understand. “And it isn’t about equality. You’ve earned their love and respect. Emrys – I – haven’t.”  
  
“Agree to disagree,” Arthur says, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “But if you don’t want to wear it all.” He motions to the discarded crown, the amulet, the bracelets adorning Merlin’s arms, the bejeweled velvet robes. “Then I suppose we could pare your look down. A bit.”  
  
“A lot.”  
  
“A bit,” Arthur insists. “I don’t want people thinking _I_ don’t respect you! And I certainly don’t want anyone to _dis_ respect you. I want them to know what you mean to Camelot and to her King.”  
  
There has been so much opposition to the re-introduction of magic in Camelot. Still, now, people lurked in the shadows and stewed in their hatred. Arthur has lost allies; Merlin has been threatened, attacked. Unlearning prejudice was a long and weary road. Appointing Merlin a place in court had gone a long way towards showing people that the changes were real and lasting. Making him court sorcerer, calling him Emrys within Camelot and welcoming those who revered him, had created a bridge. All this Merlin knew, but he’d never heard Arthur put it so personally.  
  
“What do I mean?” Merlin asks in a whisper. The fire is dying out and he should have left Arthur in peace an hour ago. Another long day full of negotiations awaits them tomorrow and Merlin knows that if he’s tired, Arthur is exhausted. But he hasn’t been able to let this go – this need to explain – and now he understands why. He understands _himself_.  
  
Arthur takes a step closer and then another. He leans towards Merlin and his arms grasp Merlin’s elbows, haul him in to a firm, warm embrace. Arthur chuckles low in his ear. “Oh Merlin. I would have thought that very obvious to anyone who isn’t a colossal turniphead.”  
  
Merlin’s breath stutters. “You’ll have to spell it out for me, then.”  
  
But he doesn’t. Arthur squeezes Merlin tight and then releases him and points him towards the door. “Goodnight, Merlin,” he says firmly. “You’ll get there eventually.”

  
  


Merlin goes. Arthur is his king, after all. He returns to his own chambers – new, spacious, with a bed that isn’t a narrow wooden board – and removes all the trappings of Emrys.  
  
He stands in his skin and lets the air move against him. He does know.  
  
He gets under the blankets, soft and smooth on his body. He knows now.  
  
He closes his eyes and they flare golden beneath his eyelids. He is magic just like he is Arthur’s.  
  
After a short time that feels unending, there’s a familiar laugh and a knock at the door, but Arthur doesn’t wait to be permitted.  
  
“Got your message,” he says, voice gleeful and boyish. “You singed the bed canopy.”  
  
Merlin makes a disbelieving face. “Did I?”  
  
“Yes,” says Arthur and he’s delighted. “So I’ll have to stay in here. I can’t have little crumbs of ashen satin falling on me in the night.”  
  
“I’ve heard inhaling satin fibers is very dangerous, Sire.”  
  
“Precisely. I’ll need the protection of my court sorcerer.”  
  
“I’ll endeavor to shield you.”  
  
Arthur climbs into bed beside Merlin and leans back against the pillows. Merlin extinguishes the candles with a glance and only the blue moonlight and the faint flicker of embers paint color on the walls.  
  
Arthur turns to him. The bed sheets rustle. “I’m not sure if you got that extremely quickly or incredibly slowly, but we’re here now.”  
  
“We’re here now,” Merlin repeats. He reaches out a hand in the darkness and Arthur is there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading :) Please let me know if you enjoyed :)


End file.
